


Nothing But I Told You So

by Mireille



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-28
Updated: 2005-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8163973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: They'd staggered out into the night together, and that had felt almost reassuringly familiar. A "missing scene" from "A New Man."





	

Naming things gives one power over them; it was a basic principle of magic, one that they both understood instinctively, Giles knew. And perhaps that was why Ethan called him "Ripper" so often these days; in the past, it had only been a nickname, and his friends had used it and his given name interchangeably. These days, though, Ethan seemed intent on using the nickname as often as he could, as though he were trying to reshape Giles' soul by giving it a new name. 

He'd been using it less tonight than usual. And perhaps that was why things had relaxed just a bit between them, after Ethan had told him about the Initiative and they had started to drink in earnest. The drinking couldn't have been the cause; even a few hours ago, he would have sworn he couldn't have drunk enough to be willing to spend this much time around Ethan without one of them being bound, gagged, and heavily guarded. 

When Ethan's attempts to charm the waitress into letting them stay past closing time had failed, and they'd finally had to leave, they'd staggered out into the night together, and that had felt almost reassuringly familiar. A bit of harmless nostalgia, he told himself. He was sure Buffy would tell him that was quite common in the elderly.

Then Ethan had kissed him, and that had been familiar, too, even after more than twenty years. Giles would have liked to have been able to end his mental recap of the night so far by saying that he'd pushed Ethan away and walked off--that was certainly what he should have done--but it would be a bit difficult to believe, since Ethan was, at the moment, sitting on his couch, arms folded behind his head as he leaned back, feet propped up on the coffee table. 

He could blame that on nostalgia, too, he supposed; not that he missed those days, precisely--he was far too sane now to want to go back to that. But he missed being young. He missed feeling as though there were a point--no matter how trivial that point had been--to his existence. And he missed--no, he didn't miss Ethan. He'd have to have lost his mind before he'd actually miss Ethan. But he missed having someone in his life, and Ethan had certainly been in his life, back then; he barely had a single memory of those days that didn't have Ethan in it.

He didn't know just how long he'd been lost in thought before Ethan grinned up at him. "Just going to stand there?"

"I was going to make tea." He had no idea what had possessed him, when Ethan had followed him to his doorstep without anything like an explanation, to offer him a cup of tea, but some perverse part of his mind had decided that it was only polite. He didn't like Ethan now, but they'd been friends, once--or more than that, or less than that, or _something_ \--and Ethan had given him potential information. Ethan had thought to tell him first, and that put him in a very small minority these days. 

The fact that someone had willingly spent an entire evening in his company right now was even rarer--and they'd even been almost civil to one another as they drank--and so it had only seemed reasonable for him to decide that offering Ethan a cup of tea would be the least he could do. Until now, of course, when he'd sobered up just enough to doubt it was reasonable at all.

"Bugger that, Ripper, since when do I sit around drinking tea?" Ethan said, still grinning. 

"You used to drink it in winter," he said, after a moment's thought. "When I put whisky in it, at least." Then he paused. "Unless that was Thomas."

"You're confusing me with _Thomas_?"

"Well, it's an easy mistake to make. Thomas was almost as irritating as you are."

"Except that Thomas was a pasty-faced twat who grew up to be a chartered accountant. And then a corpse, but that's an improvement on chartered accountancy."

"I stand corrected. No one could ever mistake you for a chartered accountant." Giles started toward the kitchen. "Nevertheless, I'd like a cup of tea, so if you'll excuse me--"

"By all means. Don't let me stand in the way of your making yourself into a doddering old man before your time," Ethan said, smirking.

"I thought that was exactly what you wanted to do," Giles said as he filled the kettle.

"I've given up on you."

He busied himself with making the tea, keeping his back turned so that Ethan couldn't see his reaction to that. He hadn't realized until just then that he'd been subconsciously assuming that no matter how thoroughly the rest of the world had consigned him to the ranks of the old and feeble-- _retired_? He'd show Riley secret-government-ninja-boy Finn who was retired--Ethan would always believe that the twenty-one-year-old Rupert Giles was lurking somewhere beneath the surface, just waiting to be coaxed back out. Not that Giles wanted that part of himself to be encouraged to resurface, and certainly not by Ethan. But he'd have liked it to at least be an option, and apparently it wasn't any longer. 

It took him a bit longer to make his tea than it should have; the alcohol made his fingers a bit clumsy, though he hadn't lost that much of his tolerance over the years. Eventually, though, he went back out to the couch, carrying two mugs of tea and holding one out to Ethan before sitting down. 

"There _is_ alcohol in this, correct?" Ethan said, eyeing his mug.

"If you're not going to leave, shut up and drink your tea, Ethan."

"There are better things I could be doing."

Of course there were. There were better things everyone could be doing, these days. Classes, work, spending time with soldier-boy boyfriends or ex-demon girlfriends, and he wasn't going to breathe a word of that to Ethan, who was certain to be far too smug about it. More than he had said already, anyway; he seemed to recall that he'd complained about it quite a bit, earlier. "Don't feel like you have to stay, then," he snapped. He hadn't been snapping at Ethan much tonight. Perhaps he should have been.

"What do you think I was talking about, Rupert?"

He'd wanted Ethan to stop calling him Ripper, had wanted Ethan to acknowledge that those days were dead and gone, and now he found himself resenting it. That was completely irrational, he knew, but he could at least blame it on the alcohol. By tomorrow, once it was out of his system, he'd have put Ethan out of his mind as well. 

"You may not have noticed, but I do my best not to listen to a word you say. It makes it easier to avoid getting fooled by one of your lies."

"Lying? Me?" Ethan said, in a highly affronted tone. Then he laughed. "Well, perhaps a little. But only when it suits me. Which it doesn't, at the moment."

Giles sighed. "Fine. What are you talking about, then?" he asked, with very little enthusiasm.

"Have you really become that naïve in your old age, or is this all part of the saintly-Watcher act?" Ethan shook his head. "You, Ripper. I'm talking about you." He smiled--without a hint of a smirk, for once--and Giles suddenly remembered that when the mood struck him, Ethan could actually be quite charming. He didn't know how he could have forgotten that; it was the only possible way he could have tolerated Ethan for an extended period of time. 

"Me," he repeated. "The 'doddering old man'?"

Ethan chuckled softly. "Well, now, you could always prove to me that you aren't quite as far past it as I thought."

Giles shook his head. "That would be--I should never have allowed you to kiss me, earlier."

"'Allowed' me to kiss you?" Ethan grinned at him. "That makes it sound like you weren't participating." 

His jaw tightened. "This is _over_ , Ethan. It's been over for decades now. You know that." 

There was a long moment of silence, and then Ethan frowned. "It's been over. But it hasn't been _finished_ , not properly. And I don't know about you, Ripper, but I'm tired of it. I want it to be finished."

"And being here? That's your idea of how to finish this? I'm not saying I'm not grateful for the information, assuming it's actually useful and not some wild-goose chase you're leading me on for your own amusement--"

"It's real."

"And why should I believe that?"

"Because anything that scares demons enough to start a war is not something I want happening in the world where I live," Ethan said. "You've got the whole bloody Council behind you, or I thought you had before I found you tonight. You've got your precious little Slayer. You could do something about it, and I don't know that I can. Chaos magic isn't terribly conducive to stopping wars."

Giles sighed. Yes, he could believe that; Ethan was a firm believer in keeping his skin intact. "All right. As a working hypothesis, let's say that I believe you. But that still doesn't answer the question: How does that finish things between us?"

After a moment, Ethan took a drink of his tea, making a face when he realized that Giles really hadn't put any alcohol in it. "I gave you some potentially-useful information--a warning, at the very least. We had an almost pleasant evening getting thoroughly pissed, and now we could actually get some...what do they call it in California? 'Closure'?"

"'I never want to see you again as long as I live' wasn't closure enough for you?" 

Ethan smirked again. "Apparently not." He shook his head. "Do you want it to be like this for the next twenty years?"

"No. What I want is for you to stay away from me, for at least that long. Fifty years would be even better. When we're in our nineties, do feel free to drop by and pay me a visit, but until then--"

"When you're in your nineties, you'll be far too old and wrinkled for me," Ethan said, grinning. 

"You'll be as old as I am."

"But far better-looking."

He chose to ignore that. "The fact remains that I should never have even let you through the door," Giles said.

"Do you really think you could have kept me out, even if you'd tried?" Ethan replied. "I'm no vampire. I don't need an invitation."

He sighed. That was quite possible, actually--it wasn't as though even locking the door would have done more than slow Ethan down a little, if he were determined enough. "I could have knocked you unconscious and left you out in the street."

"Why is it that every time I see you these days you want to knock me unconscious?"

"Something about your being evil springs to mind."

Laughing, Ethan said, "'Evil' is so very limiting, don't you think?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I don't like rules. Being 'evil' would require me to choose a side, and the only side I'm on is my own. Evil, good, indifferent. Whatever's the most entertaining at the time."

Giles shook his head. "Because, of course, we were all put upon this earth for the amusement of Ethan Rayne."

Ethan gave him a patronizing smile, as though he were a rather slow-witted child who had just managed to work out a complicated sum. "I knew you'd work it out eventually. And it only took you what--twenty-five years?"

And that was when he remembered just how much he didn't like Ethan, these days. "Get out, Ethan."

"I haven't even finished my tea yet."

"You just got finished saying that you don't want it. And there's no reason for you to be here--there won't be any 'closure,' not with me."

"That's right. I forgot, the good little Watcher mustn't do anything sinful, even if he'd enjoy it." Then, rather smugly, he went on, "Except you aren't a good little Watcher any more, are you? From what you say, you aren't a Watcher at all."

"My being, or not being, a Watcher doesn't have anything to do with this."

"It has everything to do with everything. It always has."

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"That's where this all started, isn't it? You deciding to please Daddy and become a Watcher after all."

There was a long pause, and then Giles sighed. "No, that wasn't it."

"And I thought I was joking when I blamed it on religious intolerance. You're telling me that if I were boring old C of E--"

"Chaos magic is one of the most dangerous--"

He rolled his eyes. "I _have_ heard this speech before, Ripper."

"You could try listening to it, this time."

"I could. But it's tiresome, not to mention inaccurate. There are far darker magics out there than mine, and you should be well aware of that."

"It's dark enough, wouldn’t you say?"

"I don't really think about it." He shrugged. "People like you, who have some sort of pathological need to put labels on everything, can worry about the shades of grey. I just do what needs to be done--by my definition, of course."

"Of course," Giles agreed dryly.

"What do you want, Ripper? Me to repent? Don a hair shirt and beg forgiveness for my sins?" He smirked. "You'd better beg forgiveness as well, then, as I seem to recall that you were involved in some of my more memorable sins."

"Those aren't the sort I was talking about."

"So you _weren't_ thinking of Randall."

"That was different." The pleasant buzz of the alcohol had all but faded; he was a long way from sober, but now it was only showing itself as uncoordination and sluggish thoughts. 

"Because you can't feel superior unless it is?"

"Because we were foolish and arrogant and Randall paid the price, but it wasn't deliberate."

"Of course. Because _you_ would _never_ \--"

"I know what I've done," he interrupted. "But even after what happened to Randall, you chose to keep doing the same thing."

Ethan shook his head. "Randall was _your_ friend; _I_ don't work magic with amateurs. There's never been anything else that got out of my control like that."

"No, you'd rather kill people intentionally now."

"I didn't kill your precious Slayer, if that's what you're thinking."

"You would have let Eyghon do it."

"But he _didn't_."

"And that makes it all right."

Ethan just looked at him. "Of course it does."

"Of course," Giles echoed. He didn't know why he was bothering. Appealing to Ethan's better nature seemed rather futile, since he knew Ethan didn't really have one. Not that he couldn't be good company--tonight had certainly been far more pleasant than drinking alone the way he'd been doing all too often lately. But at heart, the only thing Ethan really cared about was himself, and forgetting that was dangerous.

Not to mention painful, at least when you were a young idiot. 

"You should go, Ethan," he said again. After the surprising civility tonight--at least, the latter part of the evening--he'd really prefer it if he didn't have to physically throw Ethan out the front door, but given how stubborn the man generally was, he might have to. 

Ethan turned to look at him. Giles met his gaze, but only for a moment; he was caught by surprise at the intensity with which Ethan was watching him.

When he looked away, Ethan smirked a bit, then rested his hand lightly on Giles' thigh, just above his knee. "I'll go. Just not _quite_ yet."

He must have known that the easiest thing for Giles to do would be to push him away. Then again, he might also have known that Giles didn't always do the easiest thing, or the wisest, especially not where Ethan was concerned. "Why?" he said, at last, without having moved.

"Old times' sake? A chance to put the old ghosts to rest." Ethan grinned. "Note my noble forbearance in avoiding the use of the word 'lay' in a cheap double entendre." 

In spite of himself, Giles smiled slightly. "Don't be too noble, you really might do yourself an injury."

Ethan laughed. "See, Ripper, this isn't so terrible, now is it?" He leaned in a bit closer. "One last time," he repeated. "The two of us, like it used to be before things went wrong. Just for one more night."

He didn't want to go back to those days. Thinking about some of the things he'd done back then--the things he and Ethan had done together--made him sick. But he didn't think much of _these_ days, either. And this wasn't going back to everything he used to be. It wasn't going to change who he was as a person. It wasn't even going to change how he felt about Ethan. 

But if he was lucky, it'd make him feel not quite as old and useless as he did at the moment, at least for a little while. And if he was unlucky, he doubted things would be much worse than they were now. Ethan might even kill him before his hangover made its presence felt, which would probably be merciful.

"And then you go away and never come back to Sunnydale."

"And then I go away and never come back to this wretched hole of a town."

"Or anywhere else that I am."

"Can't promise that, mate. If you turn up in London, or New York, or somewhere like that--well, I'm not avoiding a whole major city because you might be there." 

"Just avoid me."

"I'd already planned to." He grinned, leaning in close again. "Do we have a deal, then?"

He nodded. 

"Want me to sign it in blood? Promise you my soul?"

"You have one?"

"Mint condition. Still in the original packaging, never used." He smiled again. "Now do stop talking, Ripper."

"I seem to remember that was my line," he said, leaning before kissing Ethan. There was no tenderness; it was harsh and hard and demanding, and Ethan's lips parted immediately in long-buried habit, giving into him with a soft groan.

Giles suddenly found himself trying to remember the first time he'd kissed Ethan, though he wasn't terribly surprised when he couldn't. Some time long after the first time he'd been to bed with Ethan, he was sure of that--even after the first time they'd realized that once you'd let someone fuck you while his body was possessed by an ancient Etruscan demon, it was a bit pointless to object when the actual human being was in control.

It had probably happened to get Ethan to stop talking, though. They hadn't been much for kissing, except when he'd wanted peace and quiet and Ethan hadn't. They'd been more about the magic than anything else, really; that was what had brought them together, not the sex. They'd already been a unit in their friends' minds before they ever touched one another, he was sure--in fact, he thought their friends would probably have been shocked to discover how long it actually was before they did touch one another. 

The magic was far more important to them back then. The other had simply been a way to pass the time. 

But magic and Ethan were two things he was never going to allow to mix in his life, not again, because he valued his safety and his sanity and his soul. This, on the other hand, only seemed likely to endanger the first two, and he wasn't sure, given that he'd been the one to kiss Ethan, this time, that his sanity was worth saving at present.

And Ethan was kissing him back, needy, wordlessly begging for more, and he remembered that, too; Ethan always wanted more of everything. More magic, more power, more drink, more drugs, more of Ripper on him and in him and touching him; it didn't matter, nothing was ever enough for Ethan. Nothing would ever be enough for Ethan, he thought, certainly not him. If he'd followed Ethan into chaos after Randall died, he still wouldn't have been enough for Ethan, not even when the magic destroyed them both, so leaving was the only thing he could have done. 

At least this way he was sane and whole and reasonably content, or so he told himself, even if he was alone, and even his Slayer didn't need him any more. None of them needed him, not the way Ethan used to. And Ethan still did, or seemed to by the way he was straddling Giles' lap, Ethan's mouth still pressed hungrily against his, and he remembered nights like this. Or mornings, or afternoons, for that matter, with Ethan's mouth tasting of smoke, and Ethan's eyes gone dark and wild, and the two of them twisting together on the battered couch or their lumpy bed, murmuring words to spells that fed on their lust and fed it in return, feeling the magic build and swell until it _demanded_ they go further, that they finish the spell in the only way it could possibly be completed. And afterwards, there would be so much power--dark and wild and tempting like Ethan's eyes--and Ethan would laugh and say that they could do anything, anything they ever wanted to. That hadn't been true, but it was close enough for them, at the time. 

He felt his lips start to shape the first words of a spell he'd thought long forgotten, and buried the words in Ethan's mouth. Not quite quickly enough; Ethan pulled away, eyes glinting with amusement. "You really _do_ want to relive old times, don't you?"

He shook his head, quickly, and the room spun from it. This was the last time he would let himself drink that much, he told himself; although he'd told himself that before. "Force of habit."

"Would it really be so bad?"

He glared at Ethan, his desire ebbing away again. "It would be obscene." 

"And the rest of what we were about to do wouldn't be?" Ethan laughed. "So let's see. In the grand scheme of things according to Rupert Giles, magic is filthier than sex, which is filthier than punching an unarmed man in the mouth." 

"If the man is you, yes. And if the magic is as dark as what you're intending." 

"What am I intending?" Ethan said, cheerfully. "One last nostalgic shag, that's all I was looking for. You're the one who brought the magic into it." 

That was true enough, as far as it went, but it still didn't mean that he trusted Ethan. He hadn't trusted Ethan back when he'd liked him; he certainly wasn't about to start now. "No magic," he said, firmly.

"No magic, then," Ethan agreed, far too easily for Giles' comfort. "Plenty of people I'd rather do magic with, anyway."

He almost, almost asked if that meant there wasn't anyone else he'd rather go to bed with, but the sharp glare Ethan suddenly gave him made him change his mind--he didn't know what he'd do with that information anyway, or even what answer he'd prefer--and just leaned in to kiss Ethan again. And again, and again, and he didn't want to know the answer any more, he just wanted Ethan not to be so very dressed. 

Not yet, he decided, not just yet, because Ethan's mouth was pressed against his and Ethan's hands were gripping his hair just this side of painfully and his hands were on Ethan's hips. It hadn't been _that_ long, he told himself, since Olivia had been here last, but the gaps between lovers got measured in months and years, these days, and while he hadn't thought he minded, it now seemed as though he'd been waiting ages for this. But he wasn't a teenager and he didn't need to hurry, he told himself sternly, though it was hard to agree with that when Ethan was rocking against him, slowly and deliberately, and Ethan's mouth and hands and eyes were all insisting on more, and now. 

"I'm old--" he began, and Ethan grinned. 

"You look it, mate."

"--and if we are going to do this--"

"If?" Ethan shifted, slightly, in his lap, and Giles let out a soft involuntary gasp. "Doesn't sound like there's much doubt to me."

"--then we're doing it in a bed."

"You're no fun any more," Ethan said, still grinning. "And you never were _much_ fun, anyway." But he slid off Giles' lap and stood there waiting for Giles to get off the couch. 

"The bed's up here," he said, leading Ethan up the stairs to the loft. Twenty years ago they'd have been fumbling one another's clothes off on the stairs, but now he kept his hands to his side and tried to ignore the press of Ethan's body at his back, because this was about ending things, and regaining a bit of his youth, and not about wanting _Ethan_ , as such. That was a madness he'd exorcised from his system years ago. 

Ethan sprawled on the bed with cheerful abandon, as much at home here as anywhere else. Ethan never seemed to be anything _but_ at home, and Giles supposed that was a tribute to the monumental size of his ego; he simply couldn't imagine that there wasn't a place he wouldn't belong. He wondered, sometimes, how he _had_ managed to like Ethan, or whatever it was that he'd felt about Ethan. Perhaps that, too, had been because Ethan refused to accept that he might not.

Then he decided to stop thinking about it, and concentrated on unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt, and looking at Ethan, who was grinning at him. He was obviously enjoying the show, as Giles could see the outline of Ethan's erection in his trousers, and before Giles had stripped down past t-shirt and briefs, he grinned at Ethan, and in a voice rougher than any he'd used in twenty years, with the exception of one night influenced by enchanted chocolate, he said, "Clothes off, Ethan."

Ethan's grin grew even brighter, and he unbuttoned his shirt, just a trifle too slowly. Giles knew that was intentional, and if this had been twenty years ago, he'd have ripped the thing off of him. But it wasn't, and he could wait. Besides, he wasn't giving Ethan one of his own shirts to wear when he left tonight, even assuming Ethan would wear it and not just complain about his taste in clothing. 

"There's my Ripper," Ethan murmured delightedly, as he let his shirt fall to the floor and started wriggling his way out of his trousers, and Giles didn't bother to argue even if he knew Ethan was wrong. 

He wasn't Ethan's Ripper; he wasn't Ripper at all, and only Ethan Rayne could so completely fail to understand that people grew up. He was a middle-aged man pretending, for one more night, that he was twenty-one again and hoping he didn't look too ridiculous in the process. That was all he wanted, just one more night of feeling young and wanted. 

And if Ethan kept his word and disappeared from his life after this, that would be a pleasant bonus to it all. 

Ethan was naked now and so was he, and as he sat down on the bed next to him, Giles tried to look at something other than Ethan's eyes and Ethan's cock, both compelling for entirely different reasons. 

There were thin tracings of scars on Ethan's forearms, and Giles lifted one arm up to study the patchwork of narrow white lines at palm and wrist and elbow. Marks as damning as needle-tracks on a junkie's skin, and Giles wondered how he'd forgot that Chaos demanded blood, always. 

There was another scar on Ethan's arm as well, one he'd been expecting: the one Buffy had told him Ethan had given himself to get Eyghon off his trail, the one in the same spot that Giles still had the tattoo. More blood, and more sacrifices, though the sacrifice that time was meant to be Buffy, and there wasn't a hell dark enough to make Ethan pay for that. 

But the man who cared about that was the man he was trying to forget tonight, so he promised himself he'd thrash Ethan for that in the morning, if Ethan was still there. And if he wasn't, then he wasn't, and it would all catch up to Ethan eventually, because if he didn't believe that evil eventually paid for its crimes, then nothing in his life had much meaning at all. 

The fact that nothing in his life _did_ seem to have much meaning, these days, wasn't the point. Thoughts like that could wait for another night, one where he was alone and didn't have anything better to occupy his attention. Right now, though, he certainly did have something better to do; he rolled over on top of Ethan, pinning his wrists above his head. Ethan grinned triumphantly, as though he'd been angling for this all along; perhaps he had, given that this was Ethan, who was arching his back in that way that had always reminded Giles of a cat--sleek and untrustworthy--his cock pressing hard against Giles' hip.

He kissed Ethan again, feeling almost more than hearing Ethan's soft moans into his mouth, and then again when the words of the spell that would use this energy to boost their magical power came to his lips. He supposed that was just the force of habit again; they'd used the incantations as often and as casually as other people--normal couples--would have murmured endearments. That wasn't their style and never had been, unless you considered "you bastard" an endearment. Perhaps they had, back then.

He was doing too much thinking, he suspected--and as though to confirm it, Ethan smirked up at him. "I'm sure it's been a very long time, Ripper, but if you can't remember what to do, do let me know. I'd be happy to give you some remedial instruction so I don't have to lie here waiting all night."

"Do shut up," he said, and Ethan grinned. 

"Well, if that's what you want," he said, and then kissed him again, this time dragging his mouth down Giles' jaw and throat. 

Giles groaned softly. Ethan's mouth was always one of his best assets, whether it had been talking himself out of trouble when he'd been caught nicking something, or calling up power with the Latin words rolling easily off his tongue, or finding just the right spots on Giles' skin and knowing just what to do to each one...

Ethan laughed, the sound reverberating against Giles' skin. "You haven't changed much, have you, Ripper. Not _really_."

He shook his head. "Because I want you?" he asked, and instantly chastised himself for the careless admission. He hadn't meant much by it, but it was the sort of thing Ethan might use against him. 

"No, that just proves you're human," Ethan said, lifting his head to grin up at him.

"Then what are you talking about?" he asked. "Talking, might I add, that's wasting time."

"You make it sound as though you don't have all night." He grinned. "In fact, from what it sounded like when you whinged at me for hours on end, you don't have anywhere to be in the morning, either, so what's the rush?"

"I have a limited supply of patience where you're concerned," he said. And a limited supply of patience, period, because he wanted, oh god, he wanted. This wasn't quite what he'd been wanting, if he was going to be precise, but it was something he could have. And really, hadn't that always been what he'd said Ethan was to him? Something he could have, even if it wasn't quite anything worth keeping?

"Always did, Ripper," Ethan said, and then, suddenly, Giles didn't care about "314" or demons or the past twenty-odd years, or really, anything beyond his bed, and the immediate prospect of fucking Ethan--and wouldn't the children be shocked to hear him talking like that, he thought, rather pleased with that idea.

Condoms in his bedside table, left from Olivia's last visit, and a bottle of lubricant from last summer, when he'd considered going out and picking someone up; that had been before he realized that he didn't really want to, that he'd reached the point when he wanted someone who knew him and wanted him anyway--in which category Ethan didn't really fit, but was probably as close as he was going to get. Ethan feigned a look of surprise at the sight of the condom packet, and it was Giles' turn to smirk. "You don't know where I've been," he said, and that was apparently enough for Ethan. 

"Suit yourself," Ethan said, and then he didn't say much else, because Giles was pushing into him, and Ethan was groaning in frustration because he'd made the mistake of going slowly, had forgotten, or just forgot to care, that Ethan liked it hard and fast and almost punishing, and that he didn't have to be quite this careful, because there was no way Ethan would have gone as long as Giles had without doing this. 

He was biting his lip now, because he could feel Ethan's magic reaching out toward him, could feel the words of one of the spells to raise power building up in his throat. He wasn't going to give in to it at all; he refused. He was just going to lose himself in the heat and the friction and the way Ethan's cock twitched when he reached between them and wrapped his hand around it. The Latin he could hear gasped was only in Ethan's voice, not his own; he didn't need the power, didn't want it, that was all behind him now--

His hands hadn't forgotten all the ways Ethan preferred to be touched, it seemed, and he hadn't lost the habit of needing Ethan to come first--needing some sort of proof that Ethan wanted him more than he wanted Ethan, he supposed, as if the past twenty years hadn't been enough proof of that all on their own. But Ethan cried out-- "fuck, Ripper, _never_ stop--" and clenched around him, and then he was coming too, the need building behind his eyes and deep in his belly and in his skin--no, that was the magic, and he didn't need that, just the white heat in his brain as he buried himself deeply in Ethan's body and came. 

Lying beside Ethan, afterward, sweaty and sticky and exhausted, he could still feel the magic prickling at his skin; they'd have to do something about that, since undissipated power like that could cause problems. Or rather, he'd have to do something about it, as he didn't trust Ethan to, but right now the sex and the alcohol and the late hour were making it difficult for him to move. First thing in the morning, he decided, would be soon enough. And he'd kick Ethan out then, as well. 

When he woke in the middle of the night, though, he decided he'd only been imagining the pent-up magic, because the feeling of being filled with barely controlled power, that itch right under his skin, was gone. 

Ethan was still there, though, lying next to him and apparently asleep, and Giles couldn't be bothered to do anything about that. In the morning, he told himself; it could wait that long.

But in the morning, Ethan was gone, and before long, Giles knew that he _hadn't_ been imagining the power, after all. And if that wasn't a reminder, he told himself once it was all over, that his youth was something best left firmly behind him, he didn't know what was.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the first line of a villanelle by W.H. Auden: 'Time can say nothing but I told you so.' Thanks to trkkr47 and desoto_hia873 for beta-reading.


End file.
